#in '92 hes just far too depressed to take care of himself which drives his doctors crazy and gets his ass committed multiple times

[gravedigg]

Closeups of Angel's timeline, 1989 - 1998

[drrove]

I Never Met the Devil

"Agma..." The crackling bed-side speaker sputters to life. "Boss?"

"I'm here." Agma croaks, probing for the light switch. A harsh glare pierces the dingy gloom of her spartan sleeping cubby, illuminating the wide scar covering much of the left side of her face. She brushes her long, black hair aside and presses the palm of her good hand into her disfigured left eye. A headache begins to swell. "What d'ya need Rocky?"

The mechanic's gruff voice returns on the coms. "We're picking up a distress signal."

Agma's blood freezes. "You didn't respond, did you?"

"I'm not that stupid," the man assures her. "What should I do?"

"Start a long-range scan and keep your distance. I'll be up in a minute." Agma awaits her companion's confirmation, then returns to massaging her eye socket. "Just my luck," she groans, then forces herself up. The weary star-pilot pops a couple of pills and rubs her head some more. If these endless salvage operations don’t kill her, the headaches certainly will.

The bedraggled salvager finally grabs a prosthetic arm from its hook and begins connecting it smoothly - automatically - in the manner of one that has performed this task a great many times before. The left side of her torso is dominated by a curved metal plate, covering what would otherwise be an open chest cavity with a mere two remaining rib bones and a mechanical lung. The shoulder possesses a mass of coiled synthetic fibers that terminate at a heavy socket, onto which she connects the accompanying arm of similar design.

She gives the arm a swing and flexes the synthetic fingers individually, only to find the smallest two prove unresponsive. “Dammit.” Not again. Agma produces a pouch of delicate tools and begins plucking at a bundle of fibers in the forearm. It’s getting worse, she knows, and sooner or later she’ll have to take it to a real biomech. Of course, Central’s done paying out disability, and she’s not pulling enough scrap to justify the cost.

Something triggers in the limb’s motor controls, and the fingers splay out into a rigid star. The tactile response center fires scrambled messages to the neural link connected directly to her nervous system, adding an unwelcome layer to her headache. “C’mon!” Agma grits her teeth and twists a small screwdriver into the rogue forearm until the fingers relax. The flood of signals fade. Another motion test confirms she has adequate control. Good enough. She composes herself and stands. “Let’s see what Rocky’s got for me.”

Rocky's hunched form twitches uneasily in the pilot's chair. Display screens and back-lit buttons provide the only illumination in the cockpit, bathing his rugged face in a bluish glow. The black expanse of space dominates the old cargo-freighter-turned-salvage-ship's main viewing port, with a single distant star shining just slightly brighter than the others for its proximity. An even "beep-beep-ba-deep" sounds quietly through an overhead speaker. Rocky scratches his shaggy beard and runs dark eyes over scrolling electronic readouts. Any anomaly could spell trouble. His attention is stolen as the hatch behind him clanks open.

"Move." Agma slides into the pilot's seat while Rocky obediently slips back into the navigator's position. They inspect their respective screens and listen to the faint beeping for a moment. "Where's it coming from?"

"Somewhere near solar center," Rocky shrugs, "orbiting around half an A.U., given the degradation cycle."

Agma squints at the dim star through the viewing port. It could be a trap. Or it could be the real thing. Either way, she fights the impulse to simply fire up the super-luminal and hightail to a new system. Nine times out of ten it’s a ghost ship, ripe for salvage - god knows she needs the payday - but it’s that other 10% that worries her. "Get something to eat, Rock. I'll keep an eye on the scans." The mechanic grunts the affirmative and squeezes his bulk through the hatch. "And change your clothes. You smell like you died while taking a crap."

"...After a sweaty work-out in the incinerator." Rocky cheekily adds before vanishing.

Agma leans back in her chair and rests her eyes. She lets the distress signal's faint beeping wash over her while exhaustion sets deep in her bones. She could never sleep in this old rust bucket, but when time comes to sleep in a real bed at port, she can’t find the nerve to leave her baby, even for a night. Maybe she can get a nap in while the long-range sensors do their work.

A sharp buzz from the console dispels any such possibility. Agma jerks forward and checks the readout. The frequency sweep found something on the radio spectrum. She twists a knob, and a sorrowful, rasping baritone crackles through the speaker, singing a tuneless song.

"-cold heart, that burning wrath. You took my all, you drank my last... I do not blame you for your thirst, my hubris was what doomed me first… Though if one truth can keep me level..." The singer pauses to take a few labored breaths. "It's that I never met the devil." Another long pause fills the air, and just as Agma begins to suspect he's done, the pained voice returns. "Day 92. This pressure suit is my home... I don't know how much longer the recycler will last... If anybody can hear this message... my name is Cam Larsen... My mining ship, along with the rest of my crew, has died in stable orbit at 0.44 A.U. around HPK5574... Please... someone save my soul."

Agma hovers a synthetic finger over the communicator switch. Does she dare answer this lonely survivor's prayers? A stranded vessel is every spacefarer's worst nightmare. Hesitation, as her eyes slip to the long-range scanner readout. Still incomplete. She slowly withdraws her prosthetic hand and once again lets the faint distress signal fill her ears. He's waited 92 days, she concludes, he can wait a little longer.

It's hours later when the scans complete. Rocky fidgets in the navigator's seat, chewing nervously on a knuckle. He finishes listening to Larsen's recorded plea for a third time, and shakes his head. "Seems legit. Your call." Agma stares motionless at the scanner results, fingers steepled beneath her nose. Readings place Larsen's ship exactly where he claimed, nestled within a thin belt of asteroids. More importantly, no sign of any lurking vessels awaiting a foolish Good Samaritan or an enterprising vulture. Still... Rocky can see the wheels turning in her head. "Somebody else is bound to come by," he offers.

"That's what I'm worried about." She sees the confusion on her companion’s face. "Rocky... hear me out..."

Agma fires the reaction control thrusters, bringing the now-massive star into view through the overhead glass. The past three hours since contacting the castaway asteroid-miner have been a testament to orbital dynamic control maneuvers. The skilled pilot taps the forward thrusters, slowing the ship's velocity. She depresses the communicator switch. "Larsen. You should be seeing us off your bow any second."

"I see you." The radio confirms. He's finally calmed his speech, Agma observes. The old man was so overwhelmed by their hail that it took some time to be able to speak through the sobs. "Damn fine vessel!" he adds. Agma suspects he'd say the same about a flying cardboard box, as long as it was strapped to a functioning super-luminal drive.

"Countdown, Rocky."

"15 seconds..." The mechanic carefully studies his console, "Ten seconds... three, two, one, mark!"

Agma fires the rear thrusters, matching the damaged mining vessel's velocity. She squints at an external camera feed and makes small adjustments. Her prosthetic hand seizes unexpectedly for an instant, jerking the stick too far, but she regains control of the limb before they overshoot their mark. The airlocks align and she kills the roll. "How's that look, prospector?"

"Beautiful!" The audio feed replies.

"I aim to please." The pilot smirks. "Gimme a few minutes to suit up and we'll do this thing. Keep your ear to the feed."

"I assure you, good captain, I’m not going anywhere. Talk to you soon."

Agma cuts the communicator, pinches the bridge of her nose, and stands. She pauses, noticing Rocky's ambivalent expression. "You got a problem with this, now's your last chance to speak up."

Rocky shakes his head. "Naw. I've trusted your judgment six years. If you say we're good, I'm good."

The pilot gives her companion a somber frown. "I didn't say we're good." Rocky swallows hard and contemplates this for a moment. He nods sheepishly.

Agma returns his reluctant nod. "Just keep everything aligned. I'll take care of everything else." The mechanic seems satisfied with this arrangement and Agma leaves him to man the controls. She winds her way through the cramped halls to the airlock. It’s a few minutes before she's fully decked out in a pressurized suit. "Rock, patch him through."

She waits a moment for the line to open. A barely audible mumble enters her earpiece. Larsen sings quietly to himself, unaware of his audience. “…If one truth can keep me level, it’s that I never met- “

Agma clears her throat. Something about the song bothers her. "You ready prospector?"

"Yes. As ready as I'll ever be, captain." There’s a nervousness in his voice.

Agma steps into the airlock, rises in the zero-G chamber, and listens to the telltale hum of depressurization. The headache is back, she notes. Maybe it never left, but something in the hum brings it back to that space behind her eye. She instinctively raises a hand to rub it, only to bear a palm uselessly into the helmet's face-plate. She sighs.

The indicator turns green and the dour pilot hits the blinking "OPEN" button. A hatch slides up, and for the first time she’s aware of the distance between herself and the small figure floating in the airlock across the way. From the cockpit, the ships seemed inches from collision, but now she finds herself staring across a vast gulf. She sets her jaw and connects her tether's carabiner to a mounting rail. Her heart rate rises, stabbing hard behind her eye with each beat. "You strapped in, Larsen?"

"Strapped in. Ten meters of cord, slip-knotted down to six meters, as ordered." His voice is level, though no less agitated. "I must confess, captain, I've never actually done a 'lock-leap’ before."

Agma forces levity in her voice. "Full disclosure, prospector, neither have I. Don't worry, just set your trajectory, wait for my word, and don’t jump too hard. Last thing we want to do is knock each other out on contact. We’re going for a firm handshake here." She allows herself a smile before the grim determination sets in. "Alright, line up. Jumping in three, two, one, JUMP!"

Larsen kicks off from the airlock into the void. A rush of joy envelopes him. It’s finally over. He’s going home. The joy quickly drains, though, when he notices the woman across the way hasn't budged, and turns to horror when he spots the plasma pistol rising in her left hand. "No."

The plasma slug punches a clean hole through the face-plate’s layered substrate and hits the soft target behind. Agma's earpiece howls as Larsen's life support rapidly depressurizes. It's a long, bellowing cacophony while the compressor fights a doomed battle against the endless vacuum of space.

It’s a heartbeat before Agma notices to her dismay a second layer beneath the roar; a cry of mortal pain. It wasn't a clean shot! As she trains the pistol for another round, Larsen reaches the end of his cord and is sling-shot away in a writhing cartwheel. Red droplets speckle Agma’s visor.

"No!" The pilot cries out as she tries to find an opening. She squeezes off another charge, but her elbow jerks unexpectedly with a mind of its own, sending the shot wide. A wild torrent of tactile signals pours from her biomechanical arm and the synthetic fingers splay open. The electronic seizure lasts just an instant, but long enough to thrust the pistol into the void. "Damn!" The weapon quickly sails beyond her reach.

A pit sinks in her stomach as her eyes fall on the wounded man pawing feebly at his punctured face-plate. The sounds, distorted by rapid pressure changes, take on an unnatural and infernal tone. She turns away from her despicable work. "Rocky… kill the feed.” The line quickly falls silent. Only the woman’s pounding heart remains in her ears.

After what feels like ages, Rocky's voice cuts through the tense silence. "Agma? …Boss?"

The pilot’s eyes focus on the red droplets on her face-plate. She wipes them with a bulky sleeve, but succeeds in only smearing them. She finally looks back out the airlock opening. The prospector’s body floats lifelessly at the end of its line. Her headache seems rather distant now. "Rocky..." she struggles to say anything through her dry mouth, then swallows hard, "get on the grappling arm. Lock us into the ship and let's start the salvage. Once we're secured, priority is to shut down that distress signal."

"Larsen already shut it down," the mechanic informs her. "I guess he figured..."

"...he was saved." Agma looks across the gap at the prospector's broken helmet. She touches her prosthetic hand to her own visor, a subconscious desire to caress the scar around her eye. She reminds herself what this salvage can buy. The deed is done, now it’s time to take the cold prize bought with an old man’s life.

"You alright?" Rocky's voice seems feeble and distant over the radio. Agma knows she wasn’t the only one hearing the terrible death throes. Rocky had known what they were doing, but that still didn’t prepare him for the reality of it.

"It wasn't clean," she sighs, "I botched the shot. Decompression... I've seen it before. Nobody should go like that." She waits for Rocky's response, unsure if she'd prefer absolution or disgust. He remains silent. "That song he was singing... 'I never met the devil.’ I've been thinking about it. Thinking of my time with Central Peace Enforcement." She can’t help but chuckle mirthlessly at the irony of the name.

"We were brought onto an orbital refinery to crack down on a crime ring nestled in with the local laborers. Our team had already gotten a reputation for dealing with tough cases, but this was something else. Day one, I got promoted when my C.O. took a scatter-shot on the chin. It was on me to respond and respond I did.” She watches starlight reflect off the dead man’s broken faceplate. “The resulting campaign ended six months and 115 bodies later. No home untouched. No family unbroken. I waged a war and tore a hole in that community that’s gonna take generations to heal.” She grimaces. A pang of regret, even now. “Those people gave me my name, Rocky. It’s what I still call myself today… Agma. It means 'Devil'."